


Those Three Words

by Rvnclwrites



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:35:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26254252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rvnclwrites/pseuds/Rvnclwrites
Summary: What if the breakup with Lorelei happened before Strike tore his hamstring at the protest, and what if Robin abandoned her anniversary weekend to make sure he was okay? Inspired by the irresistible couch scene in the second episode of Lethal White. Incorporated parts from both the book and the show.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 10
Kudos: 115





	Those Three Words

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first post in the Strike universe, so critiques are encouraged :) I'm also American, so my apologies if I messed up any spelling or slang words.

_“As he stepped off the curb, an excruciating pain shot through the back of his right thigh, as though a knife had sliced through the muscle. The leg buckled and he fell, his outstretched hand skidding along the asphalt, hitting hip, shoulder and head on the open road.”_

Strike’s head pounded as he leaned back against the railings bordering the pavement. He should have been relieved he could at least drag himself away from the oncoming traffic, but increasingly vulgar swear words were the only cognizant thoughts that came to mind as his hamstring screamed in agony. Accepting the slim possibility of standing without assistance, Strike withdrew his phone, and his rage spiked as he glared down at the cracked screen of his mobile. He continued to mumble obscenities, at a loss for what the hell to do next. 

He stared at his messages for some time, and another spasm of aggravation shot through him when he studied Robin’s name. She would have been Strike’s first choice for help any other day, but she was away celebrating her anniversary, likely lounging in a pompous hotel room with lavish food and amenities. It was her bloody fault he was sitting here helpless and nauseated with pain. Hers, and Barclay’s and Andy’s. _Fuck everyone. Fuck everything._

His uncontrollable anger was met with a stab of guilt when he saw Lorelei’s thread. It had been two days since that deafening silence, since those three words imploded everything the same way the explosion in Afghanistan had. Why did people have to bugger everything up? Why was simple and unattached so unattainable?

His remaining options were not ideal. Lucy would surely make a fuss and might insist on bringing Greg to help—definitely not an option. Shanker would always lend a hand if something was in it for him, but his gaunt stature would be futile for leading Strike back to the office. Resigned to his only remaining friend, he dialed Nick’s number, wincing as his thigh throbbed.

***

Robin felt wrung out. It was only the first night of their anniversary weekend, and the car ride to Oxford left her head aching and blood boiling. She and Matt were still arguing about her job and missing rings by the time they reached the hotel. She wondered if he would ever feel like the never-ending battle over her work-life balance was like beating a dead horse. The analogy brought back Billy Knight and his carvings, which were yet another blow to the gut. She shouldn’t even be here, she should be tailing Jimmy.

Discreetly checking her messages in the bathroom of their hotel room, Robin’s stomach lurched at the lack of response from Strike. She had tried to be helpful in her absence, hoping the information from Kinvara could serve as a peace offering that she was still being productive on holiday. Praying he merely forgot to respond in light of the march, she typed another quick message.

**Did you find Billy?**

Robin jumped at a knock on the door.

“Ready for dinner yet?” Matt asked from the other side, sounding as impatient as ever. “I’m starving.”

“One minute.” Quickly returning her phone to her pocket, she splashed water on her face and tried to settle her whirlwind of emotions before following her husband down to an early dinner.

The pair barely spoke while they ate, the air thick with resentment from not only the car ride but all of the arguments shared over the previous year that had never been properly resolved. 

Feeling the vibration in her pocket, Robin itched to check her messages but didn’t want to give Matthew any ammunition for a second round. She waited until they returned to their room and plugged her phone into the charger for an excuse. Her hopes diminished though as soon as she registered the text across her lock screen was not from Strike but rather his good friend Ilsa.

**Hey Robin, do you mind making sure Corm stays off his leg all week? Nick says he’s learned his lesson, but I know just how stubborn he can be**

Robin froze, recalling Strike’s remark about his leg hurting when he asked her to go to the march in place of Barclay. He never vocalized his discomfort, how could she not have taken it more seriously?

**Of course. Did something happen?**

She chewed on her thumbnail while she waited for Ilsa’s response, and the following buzz made her heart leap and then plumet. 

**He tore his hamstring at that protest. Didn’t he tell you? Nick had to go get him.**

“Shit,” Robin muttered before she could stop herself, clapping a hand to her forehead and squeezing her eyes shut.

“What’s the matter?” Matt called, void of any true concern as he emerged from the loo. 

“Cormoran hurt his leg at the protest. It’s all my fault.” The nagging guilt outweighed her anxiety over the prospect of another row, but Matthew still seized the opportunity.

“Are you really still on about this bloody protest?” he demanded, eyes darkening. “He’s a grown man, Robin. He chose the profession knowing his limitations, it’s hardly your fault if he buggered up his useless leg.”

Robin stared at her husband, jaw dropping at the callous remark. Had he always been such an ass or had recent tensions sparked a change? She shook her head, blinking away the unwelcome tears clouding her vision. “He’s my work partner whether you like it or not. I have to make sure he’s okay.”

Mind racing, Robin collected her phone and charger, stashing them both into her purse.

“What the hell are you doing?” Matthew strode towards her, stopping at the foot of the bed. “Are you really about to race out of here back to London? Back to _him_?"

He spat the last word like a derogatory slur, and Robin’s self control snapped. 

“It’s better than sitting here, pretending we’re having a good time when we both know today has been shit.” She stared him down, daring him to challenge the truth, but he didn’t.

“Look, I’m—I’m sorry, Rob.” 

He brought a hand up to touch her shoulder, but she jerked away. A year ago, she would have been fooled by his soothing tone, but now she was tired of all the lies and manipulation.

“No. I can’t argue anymore.” She shoved the keys to the Land Rover into his hands and pushed passed him. “If you want to stay, then enjoy your weekend. I’ll get the train back.”

Scrambling to regain the upper hand, Matthew stepped back in front of her, blocking the exit. His eyes were ablaze with fury, forever resentful of Robin’s devotion to her work and, more importantly, to her partner. “If you walk out that door for him, we’re through for good.”

The words should have been a blow to the chest, a knife wound deeper than the eight inch scar along her forearm. But instead, everything crashing down on her lifted the slightest bit. For the first time in over a year, Robin felt like she could breathe.

With nothing more than a pointed stare, Robin stepped around him, walking out the door and not looking back.

***

Strike stared absently at his phone, feeling useless from being stuck on the sofa in the office for the past two hours. His head was still throbbing where he smacked the pavement, but Nick said there weren’t enough accompanying symptoms to indicate a concussion. Popping a few more Paracetamol pills than recommended, he rubbed his forehead and tried to calculate the business’ next moves in spite of his butchered leg. 

He jolted at a knock on the door, wishing there was a blanket within reach to cover his lower half. He had known Nick long enough to sit around legless in his boxers, but he didn’t quite fancy a potential client walking in on him like this. “Who is it?”

The tall, feminine blur through the glass induced sudden panic that Lorelei came to talk until the door pushed open and a familiar head of rose gold hair came into view.

“It’s just me,” Robin said, striding towards the sofa. She pretended to not notice Strike’s predicament, but he caught sight of the flush on her cheeks and scan around the room for something to hand him, only to come up short. “Are you all right?”

He silently cursed Nick for failing to retrieve a fresh pair of trousers from his upstairs flat before he left. “Yeah… how did you—aren’t you supposed to be away for your anniversary weekend?”

“I was, but Ilsa told me you hurt your leg, and I—” She stopped short, running a hand through her memorable hair. “I’m sorry, it’s all my fault. I know I should have been there. It won’t happen again.”

Two hours ago, Strike’s anger would have felt vindicated by such an apology, but now his steam had fizzled out, replaced by an unrecognizable flame in the pit of his stomach. She had given up her weekend away with Matthew to check on him.

“You didn’t have to—” he began, but she interrupted him. 

“I wanted to. Did you find Billy?” 

“Briefly.” With his mind jumping back to the case, Strike scooted over and reached for the laptop on the floor. “Take a seat.”

They effortlessly fell back into conversation over Jimmy Knight and the phone calls Robin had been able to sort through, the resentment from earlier evaporating like water. It wasn’t until he showed Robin pictures of Freddie Chiswell and Rhiannon Winn that he became acutely aware of just how close they were sitting. 

“Chiswell wants everyone to respect his son’s legacy,” he explained, not breaking eye contact with her, “but I was on Freddie’s case. All of his men hated him.” His heartbeat was thumping erratically as Robin’s forehead creased with concentration.

“Who can we talk to,” she said carefully, glimpsing the computer screen before her attention returned to Strike, “without tipping the Chiswell’s off?”

He shook his head, at a loss from the lack of names that came to mind. “I’m not sure.”

Eyes still locked on one another, Cormoran was certain the air between them felt charged. His guard slipped, and his eyes fell to her lips for the briefest of moments. If he wasn’t mistaken, her gaze flicked down to his too.

“Right. Well, are you sure you’re okay?” She glimpsed his swollen stump, which he should have felt self conscious of, but he didn’t. “I’ll pay for physio if you need it.”

Strike barked a laugh, closing the laptop and setting it aside. “As if you could afford it on the salary I pay you. I’ve got it all sorted out. Pretty handy having a doctor as a best friend, knows a lot of people.”

“Does Lorelei know?” The question was out of Robin’s mouth before she had time to question if she was overstepping her bounds.

He rubbed his unkempt beard, his brows furrowing the same way they did when his leg was bothering him. “Even if she did, she wouldn’t care. We split two days ago.”

Robin’s lips parted in shock. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry.”

Strike swallowed his usual “it’s not your fault” response, not entirely sure if that was true this time. “Does Matt know you’re here?”

He expected her demeanor to change, for her to pull back or jump to her feet, but Robin stayed beside him.

“Yeah, he does.”

“Can’t imagine he took that too well on your anniversary weekend.” He examined every inch of his partner’s exposed skin for bruises. Strike didn’t think her husband was that stupid since Robin could easily hold her own, but he wouldn’t mind an extra excuse to punch the accountant.

She shook her head, radiating vulnerability. “Not really, no.”

He stared at her for some time, tormented by her proximity and uncertain which direction of conversation to take. Nothing added up. Strike was still confused why she abandoned her plans now, doubling back after the journey had already been made. 

“Robin, why are you here?” he asked quietly.

“We split up.” Her eyes now bore into his. “He said if I came to see you, we were over.”

The weight of her words knocked the wind out of Strike harder than the fall at the protest had. He stared back at her, his head reeling as he struggled to get a grip on his rampant thoughts. “Why did you—”

“I don’t love him anymore,” she continued, her voice trembling. “It was a shit weekend from the start. So when he told me to choose, I chose you.”

Those three words drummed in his ears like an earthquake. Not the business. Not her career. _You_.

Strike didn’t hesitate. He seized her face in his hands and claimed her mouth with his, pulling her against him the way he’d wanted to for the past two years. He cradled her neck, his fingers lost in her golden waves, and Robin melted into him, matching his enthusiasm while she kissed him back. They devoured each other for quite some time, lost in the sparks of pent up tension and subsequent relief.

It wasn’t until they pulled back and Strike rested his forehead against hers that he realized the traditional three words weren’t the only ones that could impact everything. Maybe Charlotte hadn’t ruined him beyond repair. Maybe he and Robin had a chance after all.


End file.
